by JR King
I watched grandpa, who, with an excited noise, poured the beaten eggs into a sauté pan. He sprinkled some black pepper and reduced the heat.
“This isn’t about him, El.” Grandma was deftly hulling strawberries. She started by inserting the tip of a cutting knife into the fruit, right next to the stem-cap, pushing to reach its core. Then she turned the strawberry around the knife to have its sharp edge cut around the stem, keeping the knife tip angled in the center as to cut out instead of cutting off the green cap. The trick, grandpa had taught me, to perfectly hulling a strawberry is holding the knife still while moving the berry.
“Cut some bread, El. We’ll talk after breakfast,” she told me, popping the stem tapered inside the fruit that looked like a ruby of some magical forest.
Verbally, I agreed. My grandparents always curtailed when there was bad news to be delivered. I cut up a baguette, laid black placemats and silverware on the island. From a lazy-Susan cabinet, I selected colored salt and pepper mills, and marigold linen napkins to go with them.
“Could you please bring me the plates?” grandpa demanded, shaving cheese onto the omelet.
I collected plates from an open shelf and brought them over. Using a spatula, he nudged underneath the edges of the hardened eggs, and tilted the pan to fold over the omelet. He scraped in the wayward mushrooms and sticky flakes of cheese, and then cut the omelet in three different sizes with the sharp edge of the kitchen implement. The result was lifted onto the plates.
“Well then.” He removed his apron and sat down beside grandma. “Does this humble meal meet with your approval, Mrs. Anderson?”
At hearing the flirtatious softness in his voice, I plucked up courage. “Can you just tell me already, gramps?”
I can think of a great many ways to describe what happened next, but none of them seem appropriate. Making some gesture, grandma said, “I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer. Preliminary results came in this morning.” Only now did I notice tracks in her face where her makeup wasn’t neatly kept in.
“I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Jansen for your CBE,” added grandpa. “Ever had one?”
I looked at grandma, blinking to clear the haze of tears from my eyes. There was a quiet in the following minutes I never wish to experience again. Felt like the floor had turned to quicksand. I let out a tear-soaked snort before succumbing entirely.
That was breakfast.
As you can guess, I didn’t have a blast driving my Mini.
Elena Anderson
The Perfume Addiction
I knocked, waited, then knocked again before sliding the doors open. I said hello to grandma, who once again seemed to be on the verge of tears. The timeless lineaments of her visage still bore intrigue, but the hair thinning and pallor made her look incredibly messy. She smiled at me anyway, and thanked me when I put the vanity bag and the tea tray I brought with me down.
I reached over and pushed what was left of her hair back. “Want me to do your hair?”
She smiled again and nodded.
I took out a brush and capably styled the mop of short brown hair.
She told me she felt much better when I’d finished. I recognized her attempt to remain collected. The sadness in her voice, and its slowness, anesthetized my chest. Walking toward the cheval mirror, she mumbled, “I should shave my head.”
I plucked at the palm tree in clay flowerpot. “You know what? Let’s both shave our heads.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
I shook my head happily, a goofy grin plastered on my face. “Support.”
She told me she didn’t want to die.
Two weeks later, Dr. Jansen gave us the good news. No metastasis.
After this scare, it seemed my new life was forming and cementing well together, occasional hiccups still rearing their head every now and then.
On an early Sunday morning, grandma was playing with her iPhone…again. “You’ve got to see this!”
Sighing—puffing almost, because I had an idea of where this was headed, I reluctantly walked over to her. “What is it?”
“Look at this picture they just posted on Twitter! Isn’t he handsome? He does a lot of good in the world.”
Boston’s leading man was indeed disturbingly handsome with eyes that smoldered like molten silver, and pitch-black hair that still had no streaks of grey above his ears. And yet a blind person could distinguish his older age and wisdom. He’d recently donated money to help renovate a hospital near Chinatown, the local news tweeted a picture of him handing over the check to the dean. Chinese lanterns illuminated the event.
Be it through a device, my mouth curled wryly at the conspicuous intoxication of Alexander’s nearness. To say that he was dashingly handsome would be a huge understatement; perfectly curled upright cheekbones, straight jaw, aquiline nose, no jowly imperfections.
To amuse grandma, I read the captioning out loud. He’s the prodigal son and eligible bachelor of the Turner family, whose exploits of business are unequaled, and although his looks tap into the zeitgeist of the quintessential hero-worshipped playboy, he’s managed to keep his life very private. He’s also said to be saturnine. His putative achievements within the business world have earned him great accolades, people effuse about them with reverence. This business extraordinaire is the best prospect a girl is ever likely to get.
I pictured a flock of cuckolded men following him around, screaming, “Impregnate my wife!” This was grandma’s guilty pleasure. She loved checking up on handsome bachelors. Cameras boldly scanning their mesmerizing looks, reporters asking them scandalous questions, airy bimbos fighting with one another in the most catty, ridiculous ways possible over them in front of the cameras.
She pulled at the sleeve of my Max Azria calico printed dress. “You should try to meet him. Find out which lounge is his favorite for a last drink. Don’t you find him attractive?”
I must say, I felt a stirring of enjoyment because she had no shilling idea about my amatory indiscretion. After a slight pause, “Who cares what he does?” I repeated for the billionth time. “Who wants to date a ho-hum businessman? And stop following all these media outlets.”
“El, I bet naked he—,”
I wasn’t about to have any of that. My thumbs flew into my ears, my eyes slammed shut, and loud verses of lalalas came out of my mouth. I bet naked he looks hotter. My breath hitched as I imagined Alexander pushing his damp hair off his forehead as he stepped out of a shower stall, his fingers weaving through the dark strands, grey eyes dripping with lust. Although it was autumn, it felt over a hundred degrees and the level of humidity had tripled.
I quickly became used to working until the evening, and weekends were typically spent lazing in Azeroth during the day and partying with Sara in the evening. I liked clubbing and I owed it to her. The only weird thing going on in my life was the Saks Fifth Avenue routine. Take it easy, I was neither a shopaholic nor was I on a Winona-Ryder-roll.
Here, I’ll take you with me.
Because I was feeling stupidly nostalgic, I skipped having lunch with a colleague and visited the Saks Fifth Avenue near Newbury Street. I consulted my wristwatch, and noticed that my palms started to sweat a little. Why’d I have to get so nervous week after week? It’s not like anyone knew what I was dong. To get a whiff of his scent, I had to get lost between the hoard of early afternoon shoppers and the haphazard parade of unhappy housewives looking for expensive distractions. As always, I approached the perfume counter with deliberate nonchalance. Thank God it wasn’t the same shop girl standing near the men’s aisle today, meaning I could simply breeze past the shelves of colognes and take long, ritual sniffs of Chanel Pour Monsieur. No one would be the wiser.
A shop girl passed in front of me and I caught the scent of her perfume. Thick with floral chypre. Simpering in front of the shelves, within seconds I located the bottle in question, removed the cap and took a deep, reverent breath. It wasn’t the right perfume, but it was the only scent that bro
ught me close to seeing him as I inhaled the unmistakable blend of bergamot and oak-moss. I could almost smell him, his elegant fingers twirling my hair as he kissed me, his dark grey eyes inscrutable because he’d closed them.
“Are you shopping for a boyfriend?” chirped a shop girl out of nowhere.
I shuddered and replaced the cap so fast I nearly dropped the bottle. “No, I’m just,” my voice came out a little squeaky, and I had to clear my throat before pressing on, “I just like the way it smells.”
From beneath the raven wings of her eyebrows and mascaraed eyelashes, her blue eyes flashed kindly. “It’s popular, drives the women wild.” She regarded me thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out a correlation. “That one is a little dated, though.” It looked like she was scanning my face for wrinkles. “Would you like some more suggestions in similar vein? Less old?”
“If you, please.” I smiled woodenly at the brunette and followed her.
In fact, what does old mean? Alexander Turner was thirty-four, but didn’t look it, whatever thirty-four is supposed to look like. He was in the prime of life. I’d done my homework. With my daddy issues, I preferred older men.
“Is it a case of nostalgia?” I opened my mouth to say something snotty back, even though what she’d said was patently true, but she stopped the words with an elegant wave of her French-manicured hand. “A joke, a poor one.”
I squeezed my fist and felt my nails tear at my palm. Guilt-ridden, I spoke flatly, “Keep joking. I’m off to Louis.”
“Try Neiman Marcus first,” she yelled after me. “Louis is for the crème de la crème!”
Once outside, I slipped my fingers into the pockets of my coat, shivering as the wind tore through my hair. Quickening my pace, I rushed down the tree-lined sidewalk toward my car. With this wake-up call, I picked up a chicken panini takeout sandwich at Scoozi before hitting the traffic on Beacon Street. I tried hard not to think about Alexander as I drove back to work…failing yet again.
Elena Anderson
The Boy Meets Girl Consensus
One of my food proclivities was eating ice cream. And so after work, I was walking toward the dairy aisle, trying to remember how far I’d have to go for ice cream. I pulled up short and the customer behind me glided smilingly by, completely unaware of the happy girl in the aisle.
“Elena?”
I stopped examining the excessive ice cream flavors and turned around slowly. It was a Friday around 8 PM. Who the hell could be lurking about in a supermarket now besides me? Any personal shopping I did at odd times, terrified that people would recognize me. Already most of my old friends had heard I was back in town. At times I was paranoid, thinking every time I saw people huddled together they were talking about what’d happened to my parents, or to my ex-boyfriend. During late summer holidays, just like that, poof, Peter Bergman hanged himself.
“Elena? Hey, it’s me.”
I was pleased, however, to see the it’s me standing before me. William and I had been fairly close in High School, but going to college in different cities caused us to eventually drift apart.
With a quick sweep, I looked him over. He was handsome in his well-tailored suit, all arrogant jock grown into a successful career man. Even though he was now an adult, his eyes were still adorably mischievous and his hair was lusciously long and unkempt. He kind of looked like a teenager. I imagined him getting carded at bars and almost smiled. “Gained some weighed, haven’t we?”
He rolled his cart closer to me and gave me a big hug. “Dear Lord, I haven’t seen you in years! How wonderful.”
“You came back.”
He picked at the label of one of his produce. “I moved back here after college. I was too much of a homebody to stay away from Beantown.” He looked up at the ceiling. “You know, this is my alone-time. I’m with this guy—his name is Pablo—and he’s fucking hot, but damn. He’s so good that I can’t ever say I’m tired or I have to work tonight—if you know what I mean. He’s an avid sailor, and that makes it even worse when he comes on to me naked because he’s toned and ridiculously handsome. Sometimes I think I’ll end up with a coronary, succumbing entirely to la petite mort.”
“There are worse ways to go,” I giggled. He hadn’t changed much, perhaps acting a bit more hyper and peppy, but still amusing and kind.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner? Or is this just a brief visit to your fave city?” His eyes came back to mine, and it struck me that it felt nice chatting with someone from my past.
I yearned to sit with him and laugh, and get to know his significant other. Pablo was most likely a BYC member, so I expected tight jeans, docksiders, a white ascot polo shirt, and a Rolex Submariner. “Next week?” I heard myself saying. It was a surprise to me even as my mouth murmured the words.
He grinned and slapped his palms together. “Awesome. Let’s exchange particulars,” he declared, whipping out his iPhone. “Let’s make it legendary. Sara sound good to you?”
“Sounds fantastic, William.”
Later, I stepped into the shower and turned my face up to the water, which, as always, thundered down with good pressure. Afloat in usual imaginings, I rubbed soap over myself, expressly spreading suds across my ribs and belly. It was unsurprising that I’d never heard back from Alexander. I’d read in the gossip columns that he remained single, accumulating fortune as he kept buying companies on the brink of bankruptcy, dismantling them to gain assets.
I spent my weekdays working, nights reading, and weekends were reserved for raiding with my guild and taking care of grandma. With her cancer in remission, things were better, these days. I didn’t let myself think about Alexander too much, or dwell on our dinner, because it would do me no good. Never mind the sexual dreams that ripped me from sleep, leaving me sweating and panting. One day, I’d accidentally picked up grandpa’s newspaper and there it was, a picture of Alexander Turner and a senator on the front page. The politician’s smile was muted, but Alexander was smiling gaily for the cameras. That charming smile I longed to see in person. Feeling frustrated, I’d used a Sharpie marker to block out his face. Total show off with his Vacheron Tour de L’Ile. Just then something had clicked inside me: some people aren’t destined for each other. I knew it was time to move on.
I pulled an extra large sweater T-shirt over my head, but not before moisturizing. The material was soft and well worn. As it brushed against the tops of my knees, I felt laziness pulling at the edges of my overcharged mind. Sampling Häagen Dazs Caramel Biscuit and Cookies & Cream concurrently, I watched my favorite episode of The Big Bang Theory’s third season, the one in which Raj works for Sheldon. The Eye Of The Tiger operatic score definitely gave it that brilliant edge, making me rewind the episode three times.
The next days flew by in a flash. Dinner at William’s was exactly as I’d expected it to be. The table was round, with starched white linens, ornate five-branch candelabra, and silverware. Swan napkin holders and knife rests finished the vignette. Pablo was also as I’d pictured him, minus the docksiders. The evening announced itself convivial. Pablo’s little brother was talkative, hitting on one of William’s single friends after dinner. The conversation had even turned vaguely suggestive, to the point that the girl was giggling and sporting bright spots of pink on her cheeks. How could she not? Under the cozy lighting of the glass-enclosed patio, he looked just like his older brother. Neatly groomed, sleek haircut, mouth like a cherub, and muscular. Even the poses the brothers struck were similar, revealing their bulk. As for me, I went home early and watched my favorite episode of TNG. Picard as a Borg. Sexy man, even if bald, what a sexy man.
The weekend after Sara and I made plans to go to a show together. I didn’t have many female friends, and I thought it would be good for me to pick up my weathered love life where I’d left it. Previously, I’d only engaged in sexual intercourse if my boyfriend at that time felt like it. I hardly felt the itch to have sex on a notion. But, with a lot of encouragement from her, I managed to convince myself that
all I needed was to power through and have a meaningless one-night stand. Being perpetually single, I’d come to the conclusion that enjoying sex could be less complicated this way and I wouldn’t owe the guy anything.
There were lots of affable men in Boston. Educated, respectful, and gentlemanly. Men who were successful professionals, who desired me, and who—strictly speaking—wanted a no-strings-attached rendezvous. And so I chose one. I ended up in a swish Presidential suite with a hefty price tag, with a cultured, attractive man, and I let him fuck my brains out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel a flutter of desire. On my bare back, my face half-buried in a pillow, I waited for my brain to activate my feelings. No matter how hard he fucked me, the orgasms felt bland. It was a matter of shyness mixed with politeness that I didn’t ask him to stop. Took a lot of self-restraint, something I was good at since the incident with Peter, to wait until I heard his breath slow into sleep before I washed-up and dressed quietly. I slipped out of the suite without saying goodbye, and called the private elevator. Tears were gushing from my eyes. Without proper self-control, I would have vomited thoroughly into the terracotta planter to the left of the hallway. I accomplished the deed within the sanctity of my own bathroom.
*
I’ll go back to the past, slightly so. To get my feet wet, I’d picked up a job at a Cross Investments. Their offices occupied the five floors of a handsome old brownstone on Winter Street. I worked for a tough executive named Frederic Ferguson, who also happened to be a human rights advocate. How the hell he’d ended up being a corporate cover boy for a ruthless asset management company was beyond me. Frederic was loud, tall, with ruddy cheeks and dirty blonde hair that was trimmed to perfection. He always wore jackets with elbow patches, which made me think of Ross Gellar. He was about fifty and divorced three times, now dating a girl who was a decade younger than him. Personality-wise, he was like the kind uncle you find in every family.